


Pure Elegance

by MajorEnglishEsquire



Series: Buy the Ticket, Take the Ride [6]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Art, Fluff, M/M, Memories
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-17
Updated: 2016-02-17
Packaged: 2018-05-21 04:12:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,056
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6037609
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MajorEnglishEsquire/pseuds/MajorEnglishEsquire
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>So, <a href="http://femmechester.tumblr.com/">someone</a> let me know, the other day, that JarPad said he did ballet in his youth. We were trying to decide at what point he lost his poise, balance, and grace, or if he, you know, ever had any to start with.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pure Elegance

Sam makes a few… noises. Throat-clearing noises. Chuck finally runs his fingers lightly over his keyboard and looks up.

So Sam drops down to sprawl on the couch next to him. “Hey, babe.”

See, “babe” is code for  _this is awkward and weird and maybe something you don’t want to discuss but you’ll still love me for that, right?_

Chuck doesn’t particularly  _like_ being called “babe” for that reason. It’s pointedly out of character and something Sam unconsciously does, like if they’re not connected by their normal names for one another, then they can disconnect from the strange topic he’s about to bring up.

From the cringing, hesitant look of him, it’s also gonna be one of those “Hey, remember when–” fill in the blank. Something Chuck isn’t supposed to remember but  _definitely_ does.

“Sam. I told you not to ask if-”

“I know,” he rushes out clamping his eyes shut and rubbing at his temple real quick. But when he blinks back- “I have to ask anyway.”

So the answer is obviously  _yes, I do remember that, can we please not talk about it?_

He sighs and shuts his laptop and braces himself.

Sam clears his throat again. “I just. I know you wouldn’t ever tell Dean about that time we were in Houston for two months and I. Uh. I tried out for the-”

“Yes, I do remember that, can we please not talk about it?”

Like, okay. Look. Sam is unbearably precious and all that but-

“I just. I know you saw and I guess. I guess I’m wondering because-”

“He didn’t even- Sam. He wasn’t even that big into ballet, he was trying for a scholarship and, well,  _guys_ and you-”

“No! I mean. Hindsight? I know that. Okay? But. I was wondering. Um. Do you think. Or would you even know?? Um. If there was any way they would have. I mean. I tried really hard! I practiced and. I just. I never got to find out if they would have accepted me-”

Oh, god. He really can’t help it. And Sam’s face is falling  _tragically_ because he thinks Chuck is laughing  _at_ him and-

Aaah. Yeah. Yeah, Chuck actually is laughing at him.

“No!” he laughs. “Oh my god, Sam, no fucking way,” he can’t stop, it just keeps bubbling up in him. “Ooooh my god, Sam, I’m so fucking sorry, but there’s no way. You were all elbows and tripping over yourself and-” he can’t stop laughing long enough to explain.

“Geeze,” Sam shifts, pouting. “I didn’t know you thought it was so fucking hilarious.”

It really is.  
“It’s not, I’m so sorry-” he coughs, laughing more, has to get up and get a goddamn glass of water before he hacks up his ancient lungs.

Sam follows him into the kitchen, shuffling. Arms crossed and kicking at nothing. Comes to plunk a handful of ice from the freezer into his cup after he’s downed half of it.

Leans, heavy and hunched, on the counter as Chuck tries to get his breath back.

“So I was too gawky and dorky.”

He sighs. “Sam.”

“I know you don’t even like thinking about this stuff so if I was  _so dorky_  that you can’t even think of it-”

“Guh-Sam. Sam, that’s. I swear to you, that’s only,” he chuckles one more time before straightening up. “I promise that’s only half of it.”

Sam droops. “So I never would have had a shot. You know how annoying it is that I’ve never even come close to discovering my own art? I mean. Ballet’s not bad, right? I’m strong enough. I could have been-”

“Not at the time,” Chuck stops him. “You were a fucking beanpole at the time and.” He cringes away from the memory. Shifts uncomfortably.

“What?”

“The other half of me having to deal with memories like this is– Sam. You followed a guy into ballet. And. Okay. I mean, the flip side of knowing all these things is our relationship now. I don’t know if I can explain this right so I’ll just.” He takes a deep breath. “I can’t think of super-young-teenage-Sam-in-tights getting boners over someone he liked because I’m, you know,  _my age_ , and actually fucking around with him  _now_ and it makes me feel really skeevy?”

Sam seems to consider this for a long moment… with increasing horror.

He puts his hand over his mouth. “Oh. Okay,” he says, muffled.

“Yeah.”

“Oh, god.” Because, yes. Chuck saw.

EVERYTHING.

“Oh my god.”

“You get why it’s gross, now?”

“Yes.” Sam clenches his eyes shut and shakes out his hands and opens his eyes again. “Shit. I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay.”

“You told me that you don’t wanna talk about these things and I still-”

“It’s fine. It’s fine to be curious. And you don’t have to worry about never finding an art. You did find an art. And you’re amazing at it.”

Sam looks to him, curious.

“Acting. Sam, you’re an amazing actor. You’ve been doing it since you were old enough to pull off a suit and an ID and make somebody talk. You’ve been acting to normal people for years, fitting in and even dropping your own life entirely. You’ve quit hunting and navigated your way into entire other lives.”

Sam shakes his head. “No. No, that’s not acting. That’s not art.”

“It is, though. And it was great practice for all the storytelling we do. And the role-playing. When you’re all different kinds of incarnations of Sam. And we meet all different kinds of ways. That’s art. You paint sigils and you craft hex bags and curse boxes and garden herbs for spells. Those are all art. You’re building a house. That’s a whole life of art. You have art, honey,” he insists, taking Sam’s hand to try to distract him. Because he knows he slipped up and said it again. He knows when he does that and maybe not  _why_ it happens but he denies that it does to Sam.

“Honey” is nothing like “babe.”

Sam goes soft and lets Chuck pet his hand.

All he wants is for the fighting and dying to fall away a little. He wants some art in his life.

Chuck will give him art. Or help him find it.  
The kind his big, awkward, too-much-for-ballet body can fit into.


End file.
